


Consequences Of Failure

by DictionaryWrites



Series: Consequences Of Failure [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Dubious Consent, F/M, M/M, Mentions of Underage, No Porn, Sex, Slave!Zevran, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-09-29
Packaged: 2018-01-25 15:59:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1654274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU in which Zevran fails his first mark as an Antivan Crow, and is subsequently sold on as a slave to Tevinter. He is bought by a woman named Georgina Maisonneuve, but he does not stay with her forever: when Fenris escapes, Zevran does too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Her name is Georgina Maisonneuve, and she is Orlesian, forty four years old. Her hair is brown but beginning to grey a little where the hair comes from her temples, though her face has barely any lines on its pretty, pretty surface. Zevran is devoted to her.

He lays out her clothes for the day: a blue robe with gold trim at its hem and at the cuffs, at the belt, at the collar. That, and a pretty hat, another one in a soft blue, and the shoes are  _pretty_ , Orlesian shoes, and that is fitting for her, because she ought be dressed beautifully.

“Madame.” He bows deeply when she enters the room, naked and mostly dry, though her hair is still wet; she dries it with a simple wave of her hand. “I've laid out your clothes.”

“Good boy.” She says, and he has a vague memory: him as a child, wearing an over-sized shirt and sleepily rubbing at his eyes, and a whore; her name is Jeannette, and she is Orlesian too; tells him to be a  _good boy_  and go off to bed now. She is the one that sells him for three gold pieces to the Crow that comes asking the next day, kicking and screaming.

He helps her dress, and then he settles in front of her, applying the rouge to her lips and to her cheeks with very careful hands that do not shake. Georgina is meeting someone today, another Altus mage:  _Danarius_ , his name is. Zevran does not like how the Tevene name tastes on his tongue, and likes the way it sounds on hers even less.

“Pick the shortest tunic, Zevran.” She says. “I want you to be handsome today.” He is handsome every day: this is not arrogance. Zevran is both skilled  _and_ gorgeous, which is why she bought him. She regards him appraisingly; he is not dressed yet, wearing nothing at all, his hair loose and unbraided. Georgina loves that he is hairless from the lip downward, in the way all elves are.

Zevran sometimes wonders if that is why there are so many elf slaves in Tevinter.

Her eyes – they are blue with flecks of grey, and Zevran thinks they are beautiful – move to the black ink that trails from his cheek down to his neck, to his shoulder, across his sternum and down lower, about his hips, coiling around his left thigh.

Another memory: he is eleven, and he has been training under the Crows for three years now, and he has had to convince them so desperately that he does not want to die, that he is worth keeping, that he is a good investment. And they have decided he is a good investment, because they are inking him to be pretty today: he screams so loudly that afterwards his voice is hoarse. The ink hurts.

But it does not hurt now: he is proud of them, because she is smiling, a little quirk to her beautiful lips.

“The shortest tunic, Madame, I understand.” He stands, and he moves to dress; it is a leather tunic, and he wears it well, bearing his thighs. He wears it with boots, with visible blades strapped to his thighs, and begins to braid his hair as Georgina writes her morning letters. She bought him to be her only slave; he has been hers for twenty years now, working admirably. He is her chef, her bathing servant, her guard, her toy, her darling pet.

He is the best at the last two. He is skilled with blades, poisons, charm and with sex. With sex especially: more memories.

He is fourteen, and he is learning how to put his mouth to a cock. Then, he is fifteen, and he is told that in order to pay for the rest of his lessons, his specializations – whether that be for heavier weapons or lighter ones, poisons, traps, lock-pickings, pick-pocketing, break-ins, other such skills – by working in a Crow-owned brothel. He is not surprised, because how else would he learn to be charming?

He is nineteen and he considers that he has still never removed his clothes for money: the coin always passed directly from his clients' hands to the Crows. He doubts this makes a difference, in the scheme of things.

He watches Georgina now, settled on his knees, and is fascinated by how she looks, silhouetted against the morning light coming in through the window. She wears gold earrings to match the pretty trimmings on her dress.

Zevran remembers another gold earring, but only one, and worn by a man: his first mark. After so many  _years_  learning, and then many more working in the brothel, and finally: he is a full-fledged Crow, and he can bid for his first mark. He is an easy one, they tell him, an easy one. His mission is a failure: the prince, a pretty Rivaini man, but the guards are called for as he does so. He is lucky the Crows retrieve him.

They do not keep him as an assassin: they sell him for several thousand sovereigns as a fully-trained bodyguard, and he goes kicking and screaming, as he had entering the Crows' ownership the first time he'd come.

But it is Georgina who buys him, who had bought him so long ago.

He is grateful, now.

“Come, Zevran, get up.” Georgina says, and he stands, adjusting his hair so it is perfectly in its place; she smiles. He hopes to make her proud today. “We will go to Danarius' now. He has a favourite slave too, you know.” She adjusts the belt of his tunic: he is much shorter than her. He is a good deal shorter than virtually everyone he meets, unless they are dwarves.

Danarius has many slaves, so Zevran has heard. It is not his place to comment, but they must be terrible if he needs so many of them. Georgina lives with just him to do everything – how could a man need a staff of  _one hundred_?

They must be so  _useless_ , even Danarius' favourite. He wonders if they are ashamed.

He walks swiftly beside his mistress, as if they are equals; but this is where he is told to walk, and it is where he will walk. They are lead to Danarius' dining room by one slave, and lead in by a second. Are Danarius' slaves truly so stupid that some of them can't open doors themselves? Perhaps.

Danarius is not an unattractive man. His beard is nicely trimmed, beginning to grey. His face, in general, is pleasant enough. Zevran wonders, absently, if Georgina might marry this man. If she does, Zevran will have to train some of his slaves in basic movements.

“Ah, Georgina!” Danarius says, and Zevran is interested at his garments: the man dresses well. How charming.

“Danarius, hello!” Her accent is the most adorable lilt to her Tevene Zevran thinks there ever could be. “Where is Fenris, then?” Danarius gives a mock-gasp, clutching at his own chest.

“You have come for my little wolf and not for me?”

“How can you say such a thing?” Georgina is teasing. Zevran enjoys the way her voice sounds when she teases. “No, I merely wish to introduce him to my little wild cat, hmm? They can play while we speak. After all, we will have no need of guards.”

Play? How Zevran dislikes such things. Even after all these years, most slaves are  _dull_ , boring things with little personality. Georgina likes for him to have personality, when it suits her. Of course, then Fenris steps out from behind his master, and Zevran's mind is changed.

He grins.

The other slave stares at him with an expressionless face. He moves rapidly to kneel on the floor: two plates of mostly vegetables with a little meat are laid out for them, that they eat while their masters do. Zevran does not mind this.

“You may eat.” Georgina allows him when the older slave looks to her for permission, and he smiles, beginning to do so. He eats politely with careful, fastidious movements of his hands, unwilling to dirty either them or his tunic. He watches Fenris with interest, and cannot help but be fascinated by his expression of wary anticipation.

“You watch.” Fenris says. He does not say more, but Zevran is rapt anyway; what a  _wonderful_  voice he has. It must be fantastic for dirty talk.

“I watch, yes. Is very good to do when one has eyes. Or when one can see a lovely,  _handsome_  thing like you.” Zevran wonders how someone so pretty can be so useless they can only do one job admirably. He is not surprised by the other slave's shocked expression: unused to such comments from other slaves, no doubt.

“You think I am handsome?” Fenris repeats. Zevran laughs, chewing at his aspargus and tilting his head to the side.

“Is not thought. Is fact.” Fenris scrunches up his face, as if this idea somehow displeases him. “Your master does use you to fuck?”

“That is none of your business.”

“Ah, so he does? Does he like to hold you down and  _fuck_  you raw or lower himself onto you?” He is grinning as he speaks, utterly lascivious: the other slave has reddened slightly at the cheeks.

“How  _dare_  you talk about my master in this fashion?” Zevran is delighted – what a  _reaction!_  He is so angry! Oh, this is charming indeed, never mind the fact that Zevran would get just as defensive of his own beloved mistress. “You are a poor slave.” To that, however, he takes offence. Zevran scoffs.

“I am no such thing! Look at me – I do everything in my mistress' household.  _Your_  master needs a hundred slaves – you must be very useless indeed if your master needs ninety nine others to supplement your work!” Fenris stares at him, plump lips pressed together, and Zevran can tell that his pride has been injured – but he is too good a slave, Zevran expects, to question his master.

Zevran continues to examine him, following the white lines that begin at his chin and go down his neck where they are hidden beneath his armour. He wears proper armour, probably in order to intimidate those that come to his master's halls. Zevran is not intimidated, but then, he is intimidated by barely anything.

“I please my master.” Fenris says stoutly, and yes, such  _pride._  How charming. Zevran doesn't usually like other slaves, for they are often boring things, but this one is not boring.

“No doubt.” Zevran purrs.

“I am not  _impudent_  as you are.” Fenris mutters: his hands shift, squeezing slightly. He wants to hit Zevran, but has not been given permission _. Adorable_.

“Oh, I am very impudent indeed. Have confidence to be so, no? Not like you – handsome, useless thing good only for guarding and fucking. You are painted, but it hardly makes you more impressive.” Fenris laughs at him, the sound low and hoarse, and Zevran blinks, confused by this reaction. He had been intending to undercut the other elf's confidence, not affect him to humour.

“Stupid.” Fenris says, and he raises his chin. “You cannot even speak  _Tevene_  properly, but you think you're better than me?” Zevran's cheeks are flushed slightly at that insult – his accent is not an avoidabe thing, with Tevene.

With the common tongue, with Orlesian, with Rivaini and Ander, he can lose his mother accent and take on that of the native, but Tevene is too similar to Antivan for him to manage it: he always goes back to his original lilt. He is still more impressive than most slaves, however, being able to speak so many languages, and read and write in them as well. This is what happens when one buys a slave from the Antivan Crows.

“This is not simple  _ink_  to titillate.” Zevran very much likes the way this one says  _titillate_ , but is too frustrated to comment. “This is  _lyrium._ ” Zevran's mouth drops open, and he stares, wide-eyed. “I could shove my hand into your chest and grasp at your  _heart_  with the powers this “paint” gives me.”

Alright, so now, Zevran is embarrassed.

“Little wolf, are you  _showing_  off?” Danarius' voice is a shock, and Zevran looks to him with wide eyes. The Altus mage is grinning a little, and Georgina's hand is on top of Danarius', Zevran notices. Perhaps they  _will_  marry. He would hate to be owned alongside Fenris.

“No, Master. I am merely telling him the truth.” Danarius laughs, and so does Georgina.

“No doubt it is Zevran  _provoking_  him. Are you provoking him, Zevran?”

“To the best of my abilities, Madame.” She laughs, and it the peal of beautiful bells; Zevran beams. He does not really register the slightly taken aback expression on Danarius' face at seeing a slave express joy for approval so openly.

“And are you playing?” Georgina asks, regarding Fenris with as much interest as Zevran – he is not jealous. Fenris is very handsome indeed, after all. Besides, Georgina does have slaves touch her if they are not Zevran, just as Zevran is not to be touched by other masters – he might, if he is lucky, get to touch Fenris. He most certainly would not mind doing that.

“No, Madame.” Zevran says. “I am sorry: we will play now.”

“Good boy.”

And then Georgina and Danarius turn back to each other, speaking together again, and Zevran turns to Fenris, grinning a little.

“Come, we will play game. Places.”

“Places?” Fenris repeats in a sceptical tone. Zevran does not suspect he is really a man for games.

“Yes, Places. Is very easy, fun – I say place, and you say place that begins with the last letter of the place I said. So, if I say Nevarra, you say Anderfels, and then I say Seheron, and then you say something that begins with N, yes? Is very easy!” Fenris looks ill.

“No.” He says, and Zevran blinks at him.

“No?”

“No. I cannot play.” His cheeks pale slightly, and he looks a little green – how embarrassed the pretty thing must be. “I- cannot read.” Zevran laughs at him.

“Your master trusts you so little that you are not even allowed to  _read!?_ ” He crows, and Fenris' scowl is deep: he thrusts himself forwards suddenly, pushing Zevran back onto the ground and pinning him with gauntleted hands either side of Zevran's head. Zevran is  _much_  smaller than this Fenris – for an elf, Fenris is very tall indeed, 5'10”, 5'11” perhaps: Zevran is four inches past five feet, and he does not carry the thick warrior's muscle that Fenris has.

“My master  _trusts_  me.” Fenris growls.

“Obviously not.” Fenris lets out a harsh noise. Zevran wonders if the other elf will bite him, and fit into his master's affectionate call of “little wolf”.

“Fenris, do not play so  _roughly_.” Danarius tuts, shaking his head, but Zevran can see from the quirk of his lips that he is very amused.

“Zevran, did I not tell you to play?” Georgina asks. Zevran feels more like a pet than a slave – and he so does  _love_  being Georgina's pet.

“Yes, Madame, but Fenris became angry after turning down the game I suggested.”

“What game?” Danarius asks.

“Places, ser. You know? Is like Antiva, Amaranthine, Elvhenan, Nevarra-” Danarius holds up a hand for him to stop, and Zevran does.

“Your Zevran is a clever thing, isn't he?”

“Failed Antivan Crow.” Georgina says by way of explanation: she looks so proud of him. Zevran swells with it. “He can speak, read and write in several languages. Yours can't?”

“No, Fenris can't read. I can hardly lose my guard for hours so that he can go and get lessons to  _read_.” Danarius says, giving a huff, because the potential use of the skill doesn't mean Danarius will ever e without his slave.

“Ah.” Georgina nods. “Come then, Zevran, come to me.” The elf slides from beneath Fenris with ease, moving to kneel at his mistress' feet and lay his head upon her knee. She strokes through his hair, playing over the blond locks: in a mirror on the wall behind her, Zevran can see Fenris staring at the older slave with an expression he cannot quite understand. It is longing, perhaps, or jealousy, or confusion – those things mixed together, Zevran thinks.

He remains there for the rest of the evening, pressed against her thigh and settling there. Fenris stands behind his master, hands neatly clasped, and is jealous of him. Zevran likes that.

“Did you like him, Zevran? Danarius' pretty slave?” She is speaking Orlesian to him now, and he so prefers the pleasant lilt to the sound of Tevene, similar to his native tongue though it might be. Orlesian is the language he speaks with his mistress when they are alone together, and that alone makes it preferable.

“He was handsome, Madame.” Zevran says obediently. They are walking home, and the sun is beginning to set – they had been at Danarius' home for a long time. As he speaks, his eyes scan for potential threats, for anything that make his mistress even the slightest unhappy or unsafe. “I was surprised he could not read.”

“That is alright. Perhaps you might begin to teach him when Danarius and I dine together.” Georgina says, and Zevran gives a small nod. He does not mind the idea too terribly: he will teach Fenris to read if it will please his mistress. “Of course, you could teach him other things also.” She says when they come home, and then her hand is on his throat and he lets out a pitiful little noise, pressing into her hand as she squeezes.

“Like what, Madame?” He asks, and his tone is as teasing as he can manage: he feigns arrogance, because she likes his personality. She prefers it, he thinks, when he is provoking other slaves, but she likes it when she talks to her also.

“Well, you might teach him to draw the  _prettiest_  noises out of you, Zevran.” Georgina murmurs, and one of her hands catches him under his tunic, making him choke out a soft sound; he is half-hard soon enough, thrusting into her hand.

“Ah, but I could not  _possibly_  teach him to do so as you can, Madame.” She laughs: he is intoxicated by the sound, and he drops to his knees to please her.

\---

Later, Zevran sleeps curled against his mistress' body. Even on the nights she entertains some man or other, he sleeps in the bed also, as a warm pillow or as a living blanket across the feet. He is, after all, as much a pet as he is a slave.

They do not go to Danarius' home again that day, but they do the next day.

Zevran is given a board of black and some chalk, and he sets about showing Fenris the letters of Tevene. Fenris learns quickly, and Zevran is surprised the other slave is not as stupid as he suspected. This happens again, and then again. Zevran likes Fenris, and suspects Fenris does not at all feel the same about him – this amuses him.

“Come, do you have no personality at all? Why does Danarius keep you?” Zevran complains one day, sprawled in the sunlight as he is. His eyes are constantly flitting about, and he watches the walls of the garden, the three entrances, the hedges. Danarius and Georgina are settled together at a fancy table enjoying tea and sweet honeycakes, and she wears a broad-rimmed hat to keep the sun off her beautiful face.

“Because I please him.” Fenris says, not looking at Zevran. He is doing the same guard's glance around them, though occasionally his gaze flits to the book in his lap. It is a Tevene encyclopaedia of magic, explaining numerous spells. Zevran finds such things dull, but Fenris insists they are better able to please their masters if they know of the magic they hold.

For all his passion about it, Fenris is struggling very much to read the book – he has progressed quickly, but he is not nearly at the level to be reading such things: he squints as he stares at it. Stubborn thing.

“So full of  _pride._ ” Zevran's comment comes swiftly, with a slight tut.

“How can I be prideful if I lack personality? You are an idiot.” Fenris' retort is equally rapid.

“If it pleases you to believe I am stupid, my lovely friend, I shall leave you to pretend so. I am still a better slave than you.” Fenris barks a laugh; he does not angrily insist, as he might have a few weeks ago, that they are not friends, and that Zevran should not call him such.

“In your dreams.” Zevran hums. In truth, he is not much of a dreamer – his dreams, when he has them, are rare and fleeting. Glimpses of things, when he was a child perhaps, but mostly ideas of pleasing his mistress.

“What do you dream of?”

“Getting my lyrium.” Fenris says.

“Is that all?”

“Yes. What do you dream of?”

“Georgina.” As one, they look to their masters. Georgina is feeding Danarius a small, honey drizzled piece of cake, and they are laughing together. “They will marry.” Zevran says, as if it is a fact.

“Will they?”

“I think so.” Fenris hums.

“I should hate to be owned alongside you.”

“Would be very shameful. Ah, to be alongside a slave so much  _better_  than you, so much more skilled, and cleverer, and handsomer!” Zevran mimics Fenris' lower voice as he speaks, attempting to get closer to Fenris' native Tevene accent: the other slave snorts.

“You would know.”

“Boys!” Georgina calls. “Entertain us.”

“How ought we do this, Madame?” Zevran asks politely. She grins at him, all teeth. Zevran feels trepidation. She had worked him open that morning, pressed a plug inside him and delighted in the way he had squirmed and let out choked whimpers. He feels it within him now, foreign and thick – he likes it, but it is for her pleasure, and not his.

“Well, you are ready, aren't you, Zevran? Why doesn't Fenris  _fuck_  you?” The Antivan shivers in his seat.

“Oh, yes, why doesn't he?” Danarius is chuckling. “Fenris has never been able to play with someone other than me, has he?”

“No, ser.” Fenris says. His eyes flit over Zevran's body with a desire that leaves the older slave flattered, pleased,  _proud._  He likes that he is desirable, even to other slaves.

“And Fenris?”

“Master?”

“You may come.” Fenris smiles: Zevran has not seen him smile like that before, and he finds the expression quite suits the other's handsome face.

“Zevran?”

“Yes, Madame?”

“You may not.” Zevran's face falls, and Fenris, Danarius  _and_  Georgina laugh at him, but it is not his place to complain. He will put on a show for the life of him all the same. He catches Fenris' mouth, pressing against him, clambering into his lap and throwing the encyclopaedia Fenris cannot truly understand aside: this is nice. He likes this.

It is only once they are fucking that Zevran suspects something is different. He is not at all quiet, letting out loud sounds; Fenris, contrarily, is all but silent, occasionally letting out a little grunt. Fenris comes, and he pulses within Zevran: he looks so smug. Why does he look so very smug?

And then he feels it.

Dear  _Maker_.

He almost screams, back arching off the ground – the sensation is electric, tingling through him and making his skin feel ultra-sensitive, makes him feel so  _hot_  – he does not come. He is not allowed to come.

He is  _flying_ , exhilarated, gasping and digging his nails into Fenris' back as he cries out and whines and  _yowls_  at the utterly new sensation – Zevran has been alive for forty years and he has never felt anything like that. It takes a ten minutes or so before the sensation begins to dissipate and Fenris draws back, wiping himself off as Zevran lies on the ground, dreamy, perplexed.

“Wh- what...?”

“Oh, bless him. Look, Danarius – he doesn't know up from down.” Georgina says affectionately, but then her hand is in Zevran's hair and stroking through it, and he smiles up at her. Everything feels so _heavy_ , and he feels he is too exhausted to even move. “The lyrium, isn't it?”

“Yes.” Danarius says, amused. “It rather has that effect.” Zevran feels so high, as if he is on a cloud, as if he is floating.

“Madame-” He says softly, lowly, not sure what to do.

“Oh, it's alright, darling.” She coos. “Just stay there.” Fenris is watching Zevran too, and he is grinning a little, pleased at having wrought such an effect on the other slave. Zevran tries to stand but is almost drunken; he falls against Fenris and the other slave has to catch him by the hips to keep him from falling: Georgina thinks this is hilarious.

Zevran's legs are numb, and he lets out a pathetic noise and buries his face against the hard carapace of Fenris' chestpiece.

“I do not think he is fit to escort you home tonight, Georgina.” Danarius says, and he laughs as he says it. “You shall just have to stay here.”

“Oh, no, Danarius!” The Orlesian cries, with mock horror. “But wherever will I sleep?”

They will sleep together, tonight, yes. Zevran, for once, is not permitted to join the bed with them: he falls asleep in Fenris' cot with Fenris, coiled around the taller elf's body and not letting him go. Fenris strokes his shoulder a little, and Zevran likes it. Fenris flinches when Zevran attempts to return the favour, dragging fingers over the white marks that trail about his thigh, so the other elf is still again.

He wonders if they will do this when Danarius and Georgina marry. Zevran is so certain they will get married.

\---

Fenris does not fuck him again. Zevran is somewhat glad of the fact, exhilarating though the sensation had been, he did not enjoy the aftermath of numbness and floatiness and  _strangeness._  They do other things, though, massages, kissing, rutting against each other. One day, Danarius tells Fenris to drag his lips over the other's body until Zevran is  _wriggling_. Another, Georgina tells Zevran to lean against Fenris and murmur the dirtiest of promises into his ear until Fenris is hard and slightly flushed to his cheeks.

Zevran likes those games well enough, but he prefers other ones. In all truth, he prefers to be at home with Georgina alone – he likes Fenris, yes, of course he does, and he likes that Fenris' master is gentle with him and sometimes pets Zevran's cheeks although his reputation is for being brutal. But they are not Georgina, and Zevran is  _devoted_  to his dear Georgina.

He does not feel bad about this – Fenris prefers his master's company to Zevran's, after all. Their relationship is comfortable, but not something deep or inappropriate: they are slaves alongside each other, and each please their owners as best as possible.

Their impeccable service is why, of course, Danarius and Georgina bring them along when they go to fight in Seheron, against the Qunari.

And they are  _glorious._

Georgina and Danarius fight and they fight, and Zevran and Fenris do also: when Danarius is injured, Zevran and Fenris are valuable protectors as the two mages make their way back to shore, that they might take a boat and return home.

The boat serves only for two people.

Fenris and Zevran are left behind, and Zevran is lost. It is Fenris who leads their pair into the forest.

The forests of Seheron are thick and hot and  _humid_ ; Zevran murmurs to Fenris, softly, that he has not felt so comfortable in years. He has always been a little cold in Tevinter, but this  _heat_? Why, it is sublime!

But it is not sufficient distraction, and he falls silent again soon, for he is without his mistress, and therefore he is without his everything. Georgina had said they would return for Fenris, and for Zevran. She did not say when. Zevran has skills that Fenris does not here, however, and so it is him that builds a shelter from wood branches and ropes of vine, him that goes to the trees and catches birds, breaking their necks and dropping them to Fenris.

He did not think he would ever need these skills, and yet he is here. Fenris is quiet, very carefully applying balm Zevran had made to the wounds at his legs, and Zevran works in silence as he plucks the feathers from one of the birds, ready to cook it over the fire. He is so focused on the loss of his dear mistress that he does not hear the Qunari that alight upon them, the white-painted men that suddenly catch at Zevran's throat and his hands, tightening his wrists behind his back.

Zevran is terrified, but he looks to Fenris for his orders. He does not know what to do: Fenris is calm, and so Zevran forces himself to be so.

Desperately, he wants for Georgina.

\---

The trek to the Qunari camp is slow, but one of them appears, and she has no horns; she is beautiful, Zevran thinks, absently.

“I am Ben-Hassrath.” She speaks Tevene, but the ideas of the Qun are not translated, and so Qunlat mixes with the other tongue. It is strange. “Who are you?”

“I am Fenris. This is Zevran. We are slaves: our masters left us, that they return home swiftly. They fought in the battle.” There is a pause. “Are you going to kill us now?” Zevran does not wish to die – how would Georgina feel, trying to find a slave with as many skills as him?

“No.” Relief. “That would be wasteful.” Slight trepidation. “We will keep you alive, if you help us.”

“Help you? With what?” Fenris asks. Zevran is too scared to speak. A memory: he is twenty years old, and he has just received his first mark, and he is not scared of anything. That was so long ago.

“In camp. We will educate you as to the ways of the Qun, and heal your wounds, if you do us no harm.” Fenris stares at her: Ben-Hassrath stares back.

“Very well.” She turns to Zevran, who is shaking a little in the hands of the Qunari holding him. “He will also abide by this contract.”

“He is mute?” She asks, her eyebrows raising. She wears gold in her ears, gold earrings. Zevran misses Georgina.

“He is scared.” Fenris retorts, and he pulls his hands from the grip on his wrists, stepping towards Zevran. “Zevran, will you consent to let them treat your injuries, and hurt no one?” The Antivan gives a very very careful nod. He wonders if the Qunari think him pathetic for his timidity.

“Yes.” He says, very quietly. “Oh! Oh- Sh-  **Shanedan.** ” And Zevran bows his head to Ben-Hassrath. She regards him; Zevran does not know if she is pleased or not. Fenris looks confused.

“You speak Qunlat?” Zevran shakes his head.

“I know only that word.” He learned it from a qunari slave, a big  _kossith_ , as Georgina had called him. Because Zevran had always liked to learn, and that qunari had been willing to teach him of the language he was no longer permitted to speak, but they had had only a few minutes together, and that was all he had learned.

Ben-Hassrath bows her head all the same, evidently pleased.

They are Fog Warriors, the Qunari tell them: that is why are they are painted white, on their skin and armour both. Zevran speaks very little: Fenris speaks more. He asks his own questions, and if Zevran murmurs one to him first, Fenris will ask Zevran's for him too. Zevran is grateful for this.

Ben-Hassrath gives a clean order: to make a shelter. So Zevran does: he tries to make it match the neat tents of the Fog Warriors, using paste from berries to make the leaves of his roof white in order that they blend in with the white-trunked trees around the clearing, and Fenris watches his movements carefully before beginning to mimic the way he makes panels of leaves for its roof.

“This is impressive. You are a house slave?” She is plainly pleased by the effort, and Zevran is somewhat proud, glad that she thinks he is capable enough.

“He was sold by the Antivan Crows.” Fenris says, and he sounds impressed. Zevran is a little pleased at that, though it doesn't truly serve to eliminate his melancholy. “Do you know them?”

“No.” The Qunari says. Fenris shrugs. He does not know either. Zevran looks down, playing with some of the white-painted leaves in his hands: he does not feel like explaining. She hums, and another Ben-Hassrath, this one male, brings out two bedrolls for them.

Zevran hesitates when they settle in bed together, and then pushes his against Fenris', so that he can sleep beside Fenris. Fenris does not complain – in fact, he raises his arm so that Zevran can press himself against the warm hollow created by Fenris' side. Zevran is deeply grateful.

The days go by and by. Fenris stays primarily with the members of the A _ntaam_  – this is the group of warriors of the Qun. Literally the word means “body”, because that is what the Antaam is. There is Sten, who is tall and intimidating, with very very long horns, and then there are the Karashok and Karasaad, warriors, as well as one Ashaad, who is almost as short as Zevran is, and is extremely rapid on his feet and swift to climb also, for he is a scout. They have no Arvaarad – those who care for mages - and thus no Saarebas – which are what the Qunari call mages.

Zevran has always liked to learn, and so he is fascinated. He picks up the words of the language swiftly enough, for learning languages comes naturally to him. It helps, of course, that he clings to the two Ben-Hassrath more than he does the warriors – it is strange, so he is told, for Ben-Hassrath to accompany warriors, but they do not tell him why they are today.

He does not complain or ask why: it is not his place to.

There is a written form of Qunlat, and he learns it. They have a delicious, spicy broth, and Zevran learns to make that too.

Ben-Hassrath tells him that he would make a worthy Tamassran: Zevran does not stop smiling for hours on end. It is on this day that Danarius finds his way to the Fog Warrior camp, and Zevran is delighted. He will return home today, he and Fenris – they will return  _home_!

“My name is Danarius.” The mage says to Ben-Hassrath. “You have something of mine.”

“Stand back, Fenris. Keep Zevran with you.” Danarius says. And then he holds up his staff, and begins to fight. Zevran lets out a loud noise when Danarius decapitates Ben-Hassrath with a single spell, and he tries to struggle out of Fenris' grip but the other man keeps him still.

It does not take long. Danarius is injured, taking a severe cut to his chest, and he setttles back – it is only Sten, the lovely Ashaad, who is earnest and sharp and funny, and two Karasaad who are left. “Finish them.” Danarius' order is to Fenris and Zevran. Zevran so desperately wishes to go home – he cannot disobey.

Fenris is still beside him after a moment, when both of them are drenched in blood.

“Georgina is waiting for us back in Tevinter.” Danarius says. “Fenris, pass me a poultice from my bag.”

Fenris does not move, and nor does Zevran.

“Fenris.” Danarius says. The taller elf looks to Zevran.

“Run.” Fenris mutters.

“What?”

“ _ **Run.**_ ” And then his hand is on Zevran's wrist and they are running, they are running  _so_  fast. They run, and they run, through the forests, from one half-beaten path to the next until they reach the beach, both gasping for air.

“Why did we run?” Zevran asks breathlessly.

“We are free now. Zevran. We are  _free._ ” Fenris is so emphatic about it, wide-eyed, mouth slightly open, his cheeks as flushed as Zevran's for how much they have run. “We murdered those Fog Warriors – our friends. Aren't you angry? Aren't you angry that we killed them?”

It was worth it, Zevran thinks. It was worth it to go home to Georgina. “I don't want to be free.” He says, and Fenris just  _looks_  at him, with something that is like devastation on his face.

“Then I am sorry. But you cannot go back. Danarius will kill you, possibly even Georgina. This lyrium is worth so much to him. It cost  _so_  much, and I am the only one with this value.” Zevran stares at him, his mouth a little open as he considers it – Fenris is right.

“We should catch a boat.” Zevran says weakly. “Is not a good idea to remain here, in Seheron. The harbour is not so far this way, is it? We will merely go to- the Free Marches.”

“Is that far?” Fenris asks.

“Not too far. Is like, few days, by ship.” Zevran says in a light tone, forcing it and trying not to think of his mistress. “We will have to be very close together on ship probably.”

“As if you are complaining.”

“Me? Complain?” Zevran laughs, and that too is a little forced. “What, being in tight, dark space, sweaty, pressed close to your body?”

“You are an idiot.”

“I am  _handsome_  idiot.” Zevran says airily. He wants to cry. He wants to go home. He wants his mistress. He looks to Fenris, regarding him for a few moments. Fenris' sword is slung upon his back, and he looks exhilarated, content in a way he has never seen Fenris look before.

“Not as handsome as me.” Fenris retorts, and Zevran smiles just a little. There is a boat there as they come in, as if it is waiting for them.

They get on the ship, and head for its next port of call: Wycome. It is a city, a bustling one, and they go from that one to the next, swiftly enough. That city, and then the next, and then the next.

“Kirkwall will be the last.” Fenris promises him as they enter the city. “We won't have to run anymore. Danarius will be here, we'll kill him: freedom with permanence.”

“Perhaps.” Zevran says. “Perhaps not. Is fine – we are not alone, at least, hmm?” Fenris glances to him, and he does that strange quirk of his lips that is not a proper smile.

“Yes, that is right.” He says, and they move on in.


	2. Chapter 2

“I am just saying, is not a good idea.” Zevran shrugs as they make their way over the roof-tops. He goes faster than Fenris does, made for agility more than grace, but the younger elf makes no complaint.

“Is- _it's_ a fine idea.” Fenris retorts, and he crouches, putting up his hands for Zevran to launch himself from the pad they create, across the six foot gap. He makes the leap himself, and Zevran helps him up when he stumbles on the landing.

“This Hawke woman, well, she seems- Hmph.”

“ _Hmph?_ What does that mean?” Fenris asks.

“She seems like she kills many people, and I simply do not think she will take well to being used as bait.”

“We shall see.” Zevran rolls his eyes, and they go quiet and still at the top of the alienage, watching as the last of Hawke's party – a particularly _attractive_ woman with flaming red hair, enters the building.

They wait, and it is only until the man goes forward – Zevran hadn't paid much attention to his name ugly fellow – that they slip down, rapidly slaughtering the party of thirteen left. Fenris is the one that pushes the young lieutenant forwards, stumbling and bleeding on the floor.

“Your men are dead, and your trap has failed.” Fenris says. Zevran walks a little behind him, uncertain as to the party – pretty dwarf, pretty red head, attractive mage with curled hair about her head. But they are not to be trusted, necessarily. “I suggest running back to your master while you can.”

“You're going _nowhere_ , sl-” He falls backwards before Fenris can reach into his chest and pull at his heart. Zevran reaches forwards, pulling the man up by the hair and delicately removing his knife from the thick flesh of his neck, now bloodied.

“Unpleasant young man. Nice body; is a shame for his face.” Zevran comments, and Fenris lets out a short, amused noise, turning to face Hawke and her party.

“We are _not_ slaves.” He says, addressing the four of them, and Zevran chuckles, wiping his knife on his skirt.

“Except slaves to our desires, perhaps.” Zevran interjects. “Our apologies, _serah._ ” He purrs, watching Marian Hawke with care. She is a beautiful woman, he thinks. He appreciates the twin blades at her sides.

“We asked Anso for the distraction.” Fenris agrees. “Though we did not realize how many men you would be set to fight against.”

“You handled it _very well_ , of course.” Zevran says lightly. “Quite impressive.” Hawke looks back to her party of three, and then to the two elves before her.

“I take it they were looking for you?” Fenris and Zevran each incline their heads, and Zevran watches her hands twitch, as if they might go for her weapons once more.

“They were Imperial bounty hunters. Quite set on recovering us.”

“Him, really.” Zevran interrupts, in a light but well-humoured voice. He is not bitter. Not nearly so much as he could be. “A magistrate's most _precious_ property.” The tone he takes on is cooing. “But he forgets his manners; I am Zevran Arainai.”

“My name is Fenris.” The taller elf says, grimly. “They wished to lure us-”

“ _Him._ ”

“Into the open. Crude as their methods were, we could not face them alone.”

“What, no correction for that one?” The pretty dwarf directs the question at Zevran. He chuckles, amused.

“No, lovely thing, I would have faced them alongside him. I simply would have been _disposable_ in a way he is not.” Zevran slides forwards, watching the four of them with some interest – Marian Hawke does not seem _angry_. Zevran is pleased at that; she seemed like a woman with such a _short_ temper.

“And why isn't _he_ disposable?” Hawke asks him, and again, Zevran laughs, his head tipping back.

“Because of what I am.” Fenris answers. “Anso _did_ choose well.”

“If you couldn't fight them, why didn't you just run?” Hawke asks, and Zevran winces some despite himself – he is so _tired_ of running.

“There comes a time where you must stop running.” Fenris says. “Where you must turn and face the tiger.”

“Tigers are prettier.” Zevran complains. “Each man they send us is more ugly than the last.”

“Perhaps because they are intended to _kill_ you. Not _fuck_ you.”

“There is nothing wrong with a taste for aesthetics, Fenris.” comes Zevran's retort, and Fenris rolls his eyes as the dwarf laughs and the pretty mage gives a _delightful_ titter. She has nice breasts, Zevran notes, as an afterthought.

“You're no ordinary slaves, then.” Hawke says.

“Depends on definition of _ordinary._ But Fenris, he is not ordinary.” Zevran purrs, but Hawke affects him with such a stare than inwardly he flinches, and with that he moves back to Fenris, standing at the elf's left side.

“The markings on my skin – they must look very strange.” Fenris murmurs. “I did not wish for them, but they have served me well: lyrium.” Zevran zones out for the rest of the conversation, uninterested, until they begin to move.

 _Danarius_. They will have him soon. And then...

Perhaps Zevran will be able to return home.

\---

“It never ends.” Fenris growls, and Zevran spits on the floor, dropping to sit at the base of Fenris' feet where he leans against the pillar. He closes his eyes, and he listens to them talk above him, trying his very _best_ to block it out.

Fenris is, of course, being terribly over-dramatic, but Zevran feels affection enough. He feels sympathy.

“And now I find myself in the company of even more mages.”

“You _can_ speak to me directly.”

“I saw you casting spells inside. I should have realized _sooner_ what you really were.” Zevran pulls himself to stand as Fenris moves forwards; it is the pretty mage he is grumbling at. _Bethany._ How lovely she is, with her hair, and her breasts. “You harbour a _viper_ in your midst.” He speaks to Hawke, and inwardly Zevran is- Upset. “It will turn on you when you least expect.”

“My sister is stronger than you think.”

“You tell him, sis.”

“I am not _blind_.” Fenris says. “Magic has its uses, and there are undoubtedly mages with good intentions.” Varric is watching Zevran instead of Fenris, and it makes Zevran _uncomfortable._ He turns his head away, avoiding the others eye. “But even the greatest mage can fall pray to temptation. And then, their power is a curse to inflict upon others.”

“No one's stopping you from moving on, you know.”

“No one is stopping you from moving on to distant lands, dear girl, where magic is no crime.” Zevran interrupts, and he squares his chin, meeting the dwarf's gaze for a moment. “And yet here you stand, where the Chantry can hunt for you. Why is this? Why do you not run and run and _run_ until the skin is bare on your bones and until you have no hope for seeing flesh grow once more on the tired soles of your feet?”

Bethany blinks at him, her head recoiling minutely. The warrior, Aveline, looks at him thoughtfully, and then she nods her head; it is a gesture of respect, he believes. He offers an ever so slight smile to her, warm.

She has eyes like Georgina's.

“I-” Fenris pauses. “I imagine we appear-”

“ _You_ appear. I have all gratitudes except for errant comments. Politer than you are.” Fenris glares at him as the dwarf chuckles.

“I imagine _I_ appear ungrateful. That is not the case: nothing could be further from the truth. I did not find Danarius, but I do still owe you a debt. All the coin we have, as Anso promised, and- should you find need for assistance, you may find it with me.”

“Or me, as you choose.”

Zevran is quiet, then, as Fenris talks of his markings, and he lies.

“Sounds like a waste of a _perfectly_ handsome elf.” Marian says when Fenris says something _particularly_ dramatic and gory; Zevran freezes as Fenris laughs, awkwardly; so unused to being seduced. He makes his way past the party of them, into the mansion: they will have it, now.

“I will be redecorating all of this.” Zevran says firmly when Fenris enters the main hall. For now, his weapons have been laid aside. The bodies are now piled up to the right of the room. It's somewhat grisly, really, but the pile still looks nicer than most of the paintings on the wall. “Is ugly furniture, ugly wallpaper, and I dislike it all.”

“With whose money?” Fenris asks, teasing enough.

“I am better at earning money than you are.” Zevran says sharply.

“Yes, there is a brothel in this district, ove-” Fenris breaks into laughter as Zevran cuffs the younger man upside the head, and Zevran thinks about his plan for getting rid of the bodies.

“You dislike Marian Hawke?” Fenris asks. Zevran considers the question. He does not _dislike_ her. She does not seem particularly interested in Zevran, but more so in Fenris: it makes sense enough, for Fenris is younger and broader, and certainly pretty.

“We met her four hours ago, and went on to kill several dozen people with her. I like her very much.” Zevran says lightly.

“Green is a colour unsuited to you.” Fenris says, and Zevran flinches away from him when Fenris touches his lower back; the hand is wrenched back from the leather there immediately. The hand returns, on his upper back instead, and Zevran leans into the touch.

“She is going to romance you.”

“Perhaps.” Fenris says.

“You should romance her first.” Zevran says easily enough. It is not jealousy that he feels – he enjoys the other's company, and while he has some reliance on the other, he has no wish to prevent Fenris' _romantic_ inclinations.

“ _No._ ” is the immediate grumble. Unfortunately, Fenris is not a “go at 'em” sort of man. Zevran does not trust Marian Hawke, not yet, but it is better that Fenris _enjoys_ himself, even if he does not wish to rush into it.

“You could buy her flowers.” Zevran suggests.

“No.”

“Jewellery.”

“No.”

“Some sort of sharp object.” Fenris stares down at him, and the silence is drawn out. “Will you assist me in disposing of these bodies, while it is still dark?”

“Oh.” Fenris says, glancing at them. “Yes. Yes, that- that is a good idea.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please, do comment with whatever you think! Next chapter will be up soon enough.


End file.
